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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25639150">Ravensong</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/catcryptid/pseuds/catcryptid'>catcryptid</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Ascendance Trilogy - Jennifer A. Nielsen</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Arthurian legend - Freeform, Cu Chulainn - Freeform, I call it, Merlin - Freeform, Other, also gets gory but thats on having the god of war as a narrator, multiple things have gone into this au but basically, the mottigan au, ulster cycle - Freeform</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 11:21:43</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>603</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25639150</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/catcryptid/pseuds/catcryptid</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>An old god reminisces about a boy he once knew.<br/>Magic/Merlin/Cu Chulainn AU</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Ravensong</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>A different air followed the little boy.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He was different from his brother, and different from the other children running around the castle keep. There was fire in his steps and courage in his voice, a notable feat for a child as small as he was. Everyone knew that there was something more to him.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Something not quite human.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>There were plenty of halflings dashing over Carthya’s green hills in the old days. When there was room for more than just human morality and metal machines. But time is not kind; time grew jealous and disposed of us to make room for the new.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But I think of my time and smile; it is what keeps me from giving in to time’s demands and fading to dust.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I will not fade.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Even if it means I am the last one standing, I will be there on that fateful day when the hero light returns and reunites me with those I followed. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They call me by many names; war, fear, fate. But that’s untrue. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>My name is much simpler. Much humbler. Names are a gift, to give it away is to give another power over you.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But I’m not afraid, I know what I’m capable of. I gave my name often; I told those I followed to call me Mott.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I’ve taken great care to keep names alive. You’re never truly gone so long as somebody knows you.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jaron was unlike anything that graced the castle, and I think that’s what kept his father from him for so long. And who could blame him? Another’s power isn’t welcome in the presence of a king, especially if that power doesn’t fit the holy ideas that have become so popular.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The first time I saw Jaron, I was riding behind the king. He was sitting on a fence post with a dozen other runts. His eyes sparkled when he saw his father riding back through the gates keeping Drylliad safe from the rest of the world. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He was holding up another little boy. Jaron was full of life. Bursting with energy from every pore. The little boy he supported was sweating despite the freezing temperature. The telltale sign of an illness.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But as I followed Eckbert into the castle courtyard, the sweating little boy leaped off of the fence, following the pack with ease.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>As if he’d never been sick in the first place.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Over time, as magic faded, people remembered the traditions. They remembered the rituals and potions, but without magic, the rituals were nothing but odd attempts to save a man from a shattered spine or a child in the womb with its cord around its neck. No amount of herbs or stones would’ve saved that little boy from the sweating sickness. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The power to heal comes at a great price.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And Jaron had used it without thinking. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Without knowing what he’d done.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Without a constant source of energy, spells fade. They become useless, and everything reverts back to its natural state. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I’d suspected Jaron had magic ever since that day I saw him. Ever since I’d seen that sickly little boy dash off after the others without a second thought. I’d thought that eventually Jaron’s spell would fade, and there would be one less member of the pack. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>When I returned years later, however, I was mistaken. The sickly little boy, still pale and fragile, was running with the pack. Jaron was in the lead beside two others. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And I was wrong. The fire in Jaron’s every step was not the flame of fading magic.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It was the roar of something else entirely.</span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p>
  </div></div>
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